Chapter Text
That actually could've gone way better.
He had low expectations for his family getting along, but wow. Diego had just made Luther confess to accusing them of murdering their dear old dad. He didn’t expect to be accused of anything, but here they were.
Klaus just stared at Luther in betrayal. 'What the hell did we do to make him believe that?' He looked at the stuttering Luther attempting to form words as, one by one, his siblings got up to leave. Pissed off, Klaus did the same and walked off, taking the small trophy and going up the stairs to his room. He used to enjoy skipping every other step but after his jaw accident, better to be safe than sorry.
After all these years, the atmosphere that the bland walls created still created chills down his spine. He remembered running down the hallway and laughing as he stole one of Diego’s precious knives. He remembered skipping to his room with Allison's new skirt. He remembered quietly walking to his room, tears threatening to fall, as he came back from a long session in the mausoleum. A lot of happy memories had been replaced by his severe trauma, and before he could spiral any further, he rushed to his room.
Closing his door, he was ready to place that trophy on his bookshelf, along with all of his other amazing collectibles. Ever since he was a little kid, he'd been waiting to put that trophy in his room, keeping a small space open right above his books covered in a thick layer of dust. During his many lectures from his father, he would look at the trophy locked away in the cabinet and imagine it as a prize token for being the best sibling. The best Hargreeves. The best superhero.
Klaus also just liked to show off.
Cleaning off the dust-ridden shelf, his mind couldn't help but drift back to the trainwreck that was their first family meeting in years. Contrary to popular belief, Klaus actually took offense to what Luther said in their first family meeting in years. He could totally use his powers if he wanted to. Sure, he'd have to wait like a day (or two) (or maybe a week) (or a month) to actually use his powers to their “true potential" but he could totally still do it.
In all honesty, he was so sick of being titled the burden of the family, the “good for nothing junkie.” He could've been useful but he was cast aside for years that he fell into that role and couldn't escape from it. After leaving the academy, Klaus would often fall into the hole of imagining his siblings respecting him and thinking of their brother as one of them. As someone useful and not always the lookout. As a person.
He would always come back from that daydream in tears and a syringe in hand.
After much anticipation, he put his trophy down ever so nicely (on the third shelf to the left), and stood back to admire his placement. He had placed it next to his mini ouija board and the Griddy's mug that he stole. Perfect.
But what would make this day even better?
Proving Luther wrong.
Fuck Luther.
Klaus was suddenly hit again by a wave of resentment and shame, coming from the memories of his fucked-up childhood. His siblings slowly pushing him away, being called a disappointment over and over again, being locked in a mausoleum for days or weeks. Who knew two hours back in the academy would do this to him?
(Ben did.)
Now filled with dread, he sluggishly walked down the hall, down the stairs, and back to the living room. Then back up again to get the ashes of his dead father.
Hey, a man can forget things.
Going back to the house bar, he placed the urn down and goes to get a miniature picture of his dear old dad. It was the same painting in every frame, down to the shading to the brush strokes. Even in paintings, the scowl of disappointment remained. Klaus was surprised at how many pictures of Reginald were in the billionaire’s house.
Who knew he was so vain?
Klaus didn’t really want to summon and face his asshole of a father. He did nothing but bring them all down and give them all neverending trauma, but he wouldn't let his siblings be right about him. He’s not a useless junkie, he can do lots of things.
He shook out his hands and the rest of his body to prepare him for the seánce of his life. Klaus was sober (enough) to perform one. Even if he'd never actually succeeded in performing one in all of his 29 years of age.
He looked twice around the room, hoping to see Ben’s stupid face, reading a book about god knows what. However, he's not there to tell Klaus this is a bad idea.
Oh well.
He curled his hands into fists, focusing on the picture in front of him. He felt his hand's tingle, slowly losing the warm feeling he was so used to and fading into the deep cold. As he falls deeper into his powers, Klaus was reminded of all those years ago when he first did this with Ben. He remembered the cool blue engulfing his fists as he pleaded to get his brother back. He remembered everything.
Klaus suddenly became aware of the feeling in his hands creeping up through his arms and the rest of his body as he sank into the cold. This would’ve been a very soothing feeling if he wasn’t shitting his pants.
He began to take in the paintings, the books, anything to help further his search of the dead billionaire. He felt like he was swimming, sifting through billions of ghosts to find just one. After what seemed like years of searching, he began to feel his strength and his connection to the other side slip away through his fingers.
Hell no.
With the rest of his little strength, he pushed through the veil one last time and finally felt a cold hand grip his arm. He pulled, almost falling over, to reveal a transparent version of his father. The same scowl, clothes, monocle, posture, nothing had changed from the old man’s look beside the fact that he was now a clear blue.
They both stood in silence, one with bewilderment and one in annoyance. “What in god’s name took you so long? I expected my son who can conjure the dead to have brought me forth hours ago.” Klaus tried not to flinch as memories of his father’s booming voice came flooding back. He couldn’t do this again.
“At least I brought you back. I could’ve not conjured you at all.” Klaus said, leaning his weight unto one of the many marble pillars adorning the mansion.
“There is no time for your jokes, Number Four.” Of course, he still uses our numbers, Klaus thought to himself, rolling his eyes.
He observed his dead dad straighten his worn down jacket and he added, “Now, what have you learned about the apocalypse?”
...what?
“Apocalypse? What about an apocalypse?” Klaus doesn’t pay much attention to a lot of things, but he certainly would’ve remembered something big as an apocalypse. What does that even mean? Klaus cocked his head at an unchanging face, forever molded into one emotion - disappointment.
“The apocalypse that is destined to happen in less than 2 weeks, Number Four. You still don’t know how to stop this disaster?”
“....am I supposed to?”
Klaus saw his father's shoulders straighten themselves out as if preparing himself for something. An uncertain feeling planted itself into Klaus’s stomach. This won’t end well.
With a sigh, he heard his father say, “I guess I will have to take manners into my own hands, All your siblings are here, correct?”
“Yeah, we’re all here, but what can you do? You’re dead.” He said, scoffing at the idea of his dad haunting his own house, trying to actually help his siblings rather than tear them down for the 4th time that week.
“Yes, that is correct, Number Four.”
“But you aren’t”
Before Klaus could react, he felt the same cold blue feeling whoosh through him, as if permanently tethering and making a spot for itself on the Klaus Train. He tried to yell, to speak, to move, but it was like he was stuck. He struggled to move any of his limbs as he tried to regain control but Klaus knew he had lost this fight.
He felt black darkness yank him down and down, further into unconsciousness. He felt his eyelids drooping, his muscles relaxing, his body pleading for rest. He couldn’t fight it as he felt himself slip more into the sweet embrace of darkness.
----
He came to already walking, pouring himself a drink without even thinking about it. He moved his head without moving his head, clapping without wanting to. Like someone was making him do it.
Like someone possessed him.
It hit him too quickly that he was no longer in control of his own body. The one thing his dad couldn’t control is now lost. Klaus felt like he was in a prison, cold and dark and unable to move. He was always a prisoner of his own mind, but never to this extent. He tried to calm down and breathe but there’s no need to when you don’t have a body to use.
Klaus felt himself walk to the bathroom, looking at his appearance with a disgusted look on his face. He looked good, goddamnit. He wanted to slap himself, to have a drink, to take a hit, anything, but to no avail. He simply couldn’t move. He felt his father look down and heard his own voice say
“Before we get down to business, we need to get you into pants, Number Four.”
Great.